Winter, thy enemy, thy friend
by LadyTP
Summary: Sandor rescues Sansa from the Vale but the two find themselves trapped in an abandoned cabin when the brutal winter takes hold of the Mountains of the Moon. Takes place after ADWD.
1. Blizzard

**Author's Notes: **This was my gift to Irismoongarden in LJ Sansa_Sandor holiday exchange - happy holidays!

One of her wish-list prompts was _"Would love it if someone would write a story where San/San leave the Vale and head to Winterfell, but get trapped in the snow and find a cabin and have to spend winter snowed in"_. It appealed to me and here are the results a series of little vignettes describing their quiet life while surviving the winter. I hope you enjoy!

_**Summary**__: Snow was their enemy, yet it was also their friend. _

* * *

**Hut **

**_Sandor_**

Sandor pushed the door open, the old gnarled wood giving in reluctantly as if wishing to hold on to the secrets it held behind it.

Damp smell, musty whiff. Coarse wooden furniture knocked over, dust settled on surfaces. That mattered not.

His feet felt leaden when he stepped across the threshold and collapsed onto the floor, the girl in his arms almost getting crushed under him. Deep ragged breaths filled his lungs with stale air. _Safe. _

After gathering his breath for a moment he scrambled onto his knees by pure force of his iron will – the same will that had seen them through the snowstorm and never-ending howling wind. Slowly he climbed to his full height, supporting his weight against the wall. He felt too weak to lift the girl but he dragged her by the shoulders just the same to the pallet at the back of the room. She looked like a broken doll lying there, face paler than snow. Sandor leaned in slightly and saw her lips quivering, her face screwed up in pain or cold or both. _Good. She is still alive._

A tired tug at the reins of the horse, pulling him too into the only room in the hut. With his last remaining strength Sandor released the saddle strap and let it fall. Then he let himself go and his tall body crumpled to the floor.

Darkness overtook him.

* * *

**Snow **

**_Sandor_**

Snow was their enemy, yet it was also their friend. It had stopped them and stranded them in this no-man's land, an existence consisting of the basest of needs; food, water and warmth. Sustenance and survival.

Still, snow enveloped their hut from all sides, insulating them from cold and wind. When it was too stormy to go out even to fetch water from the stream that ran downhill from the clearing, Sandor carried big blocks of it inside to melt for drinking.

Firewood they had aplenty; Sandor had examined the woods nearby and found a storm had passed the area some years ago and left in its wake an abundance of fallen trees. Not too far gone to be rotten and mushy, and not so fresh as to not burn properly. He hacked at the stumps with his sword and carried the pieces to the hut, one by one. The girl joined him and picked the branches and the bark, and so, over time, they gathered a good supply of wood behind the fireplace.

Sometimes Sandor watched as the snowflakes danced down from the sky, soft and innocent, whirling in the wind. How could such softness be the death of men?

Once, many years ago on a campaign in the mountains he had seen new snow falling at the site of a skirmish, covering pools of blood, turned earth and the mutilated corpses of slain men. The scene of horrors had transformed into a vista of strange beauty and peace.

Snow was like the northern girl; his curse and his blessing.

* * *

**Horse **

**_Sansa_**

Blood trickled from the jugular to the vat, splashing on the Hound's face as he held the vessel. He didn't flinch – surely he was no stranger to blood on his face, on his hands, on his body? Sansa shivered, the realisation reminding her anew with whom she was stranded in this lonely place. The remorseless warrior. The man who loved killing. Yet this blood – unlike others – was a giver of life, not a sign of life taken. For them at least, the horse not having been so lucky.

They had had no choice but to kill it as they didn't have enough hay or grain to keep it alive. A shame; he had been a sturdy stallion, had done as he was bid and Sansa could see sadness crossing the Hound's face as he cut the horse's throat. She turned away but at his command she handed him the tub.

She was staring at him now, biting her lower lip. They didn't talk much, not since they had recovered their strength and wits after stumbling into the empty hut. Without him commanding her, Sansa had gone through the place and all it contained, assessing what useful items she could find.

Life was full of surprises even for someone who had seen as much as Sansa had. The two of them: the noble girl, castle born and raised, and the crude soldier, more at home in barracks and cheap winesinks, sharing a house and existence. She cooked and cleaned and carried water and washed their crude mugs and plates in a pail of ice-cold water without a complaint. He let her.

"Take this to the hut and leave it outside the door. Take some inside, let it set and we'll fry it for supper. The rest can freeze over, it keeps better that way." Sansa grabbed the vat, too heavy for her to carry, and dragged it behind her across the tightly packed snow. It glided easily and the blood inside sloshed back and forth in tune with her steps.

She could feel how he followed her with his gaze.

* * *

**Mattress **

**_Sandor_**

The horse having been cut into manageable pieces, they were well set. Sandor built a crude cage next to the hut from timber he took from a derelict barn to protect the meat from hungry scavengers – from _other_ hungry scavengers.

A steady supply of water from the stream or snow, frozen horsemeat and the remains of the supplies they had taken from the Vale; dry bread, hard cheese, grain meant for the horse but now used by them – they were well set indeed.

The previous inhabitants had fled in a hurry, taking only their most prized possessions with them. If it had been the threat of mountain clans, the approaching clash of the kings or the anticipated arrival of winter, he didn't know and didn't care. They had some blankets and two crude pallets with mattresses thinly filled with crumbled straw.

Sandor didn't mind; he was used to sleeping on hard surfaces, but in the darkness of the night he could hear the girl turning on her bed restlessly, trying to find a good position.

_She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me. _

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass, _

_But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._

Sandor shook his head, irritated. Why did that stupid song come into his head, unbidden? Gods, he cared naught for soppy love songs, couldn't remember when and where he had heard the ballad the last time, and didn't care if he never heard it again.

The next day he wandered into the woods, shovelled the snow away near some rocks and found what he was looking for; moss growing densely on the forest floor. The girl looked surprised when he threw a sack full of it in front of her but soon understood his meaning.

It took several days for the moss to dry out but dry it was in the end and she stuffed it into the mattress she had emptied.

She sent him back several times asking for more. She never raised her voice or made him feel like she was a highborn sending a servant for an errand. No, she always asked shyly and courteously, dropping her sers and lords even though he had warned her against wasting such titles on a dog.

Bloody princess, Sandor thought while he picked more and more moss. 'No featherbed for me' indeed! His mood was foul and got fouler still when he realised he didn't _really_ have to do her bidding - but he did it just the same.

In the evening he retired to his pallet near the door – the girl's being against the back wall – and felt the softness of the mattress under his heavy body. The girl had filled them both with moss.

That night he heard only her deep, steady breathing as she slept. The sound filled him with satisfaction, as did the soft bed under him.

* * *

**Firewood **

**_Sandor_**

Sandor took a deep breath to fill his lungs with cold and crisp air. He felt at peace. Routine had been an integral part of his life for many years, the rhythm of his days at the Quiet Isle punctuated by mealtimes, services in the sept and calls for time of rest in the evenings. He found himself settling into this new routine easily enough, and it soothed his soul.

What he _hadn't_ gotten used to was her presence. The brothers had never bothered him as much as the little bird did; wherever he was, wherever _she_ was, Sandor was always aware of her proximity. Without having to turn he knew that she was in the yard, doing something. What could she be up to? It was very quiet, only the steady hacking of his sword cutting through the wood echoing through stillness as he broke tree trunks into more manageable pieces.

Without his command the girl appeared next to him when he had finished with the fallen giant and started to pick up the sections. Sandor helped her, lifting lighter logs into her outstretched arms until he judged she could bear no more.

"One more. I can carry it."

He glanced at her and saw her earnestness. In front of his scrutinising eyes her lips curled into a cautious smile. He saw it reaching her eyes, which sparkled like diamonds – like blue jewels. Sandor had once seen exotic jewellery gifted to Cersei by foreign dignitaries, and among them had been stones blue as a deep lake on a sunny day, bluer than a summer sky. Her eyes were like those gems, except they had been cold and her eyes were _warm._

Sandor bent down and picked one more log, hardly thicker than his middle finger, and placed it on top of her pile.

* * *

**Castle **

**_Sansa_**

It was a clear, dry day – no signs of the turbulent storms that blew from the north and turned the landscape to such whiteness that they could hardly see from the front door to the barn. Sansa had ventured out and her cheeks were numb from cold, but for the first time since they had fled the Vale she felt joy bubbling inside her. The sensation of being free, for so long repressed, made her light-headed. The day reminded her of Winterfell and a minor winter they had experienced when she had been a child. It had hardly been a proper one but there had been cold and snow and she had enjoyed it with the gaiety of youth.

The Hound was picking at the remains of the barn again, looking for suitable pieces of wood to connect an old outhouse to their small hut. He had already dragged the modest wooden structure opposite to the backdoor, and now desired to secure it so that they didn't need to walk across the yard for their natural needs. Sansa was embarrassed about the whole notion, but practicality spoke in its favour.

She had found living in close quarters with the Hound surprisingly agreeable. When he had come to her, she hadn't needed to think twice before following him. Nonetheless, their plan had been to travel straight to the North, not to get stranded in the mountains. Yet, she trusted him. He was every bit as intimidating as she remembered, but she wasn't afraid of him - not anymore.

He gave her privacy when she needed it, spending hours in the woods hunting and gathering or doing gods knew what. In the evenings they retired to their pallets, he next to the door, she behind a curtain she had hung across the room, made from the remains of empty grain sacks she had found in the barn.

Sansa followed the Hound with her gaze as he toiled, marvelling at the effortless way he carried piles of heavy planks across the yard. His breath misted in front of him and every now and then he brushed snow away from his collar where it had fallen. There was peculiar purposefulness and tranquillity in his movements; every bow, every lift and every throw appeared to be carefully measured for minimum exertion and maximum impact. Every so often he stopped, took a deep breath and wiped his brow with the back of his gloved hand. Sometimes he glanced in her direction and despite her instinctive reaction to drop her eyes and look away, she didn't. There was nothing and nobody else she could pretend to be paying attention to; it was just the two of them. If she ignored him, her saviour and protector, what would it say about her? She owed him. The least she could do was to look him in the eye.

He never acknowledged her but soon returned to his task without a word or a gesture.

Sansa pushed the snow on the ground with her foot and saw how malleable it was. She couldn't resist the temptation and knelt right then and there in the middle of the yard, and used her hands to shape walls and squares to form buildings. Without a conscious thought she worked the snow until she paused and saw what she had created.

A castle. She had built a castle of snow; walls and turrets and ramparts, a small bailey and a cluster of tiny buildings inside the walls. _Winterfell. _Sansa was so focussed on her task she didn't notice him approaching, only stopping when his shadow fell on the construction. She looked up, startled.

The Hound studied the structure for a moment. "Walls are not high enough. You don't want enemies streaming in that easily, do you now? Also," he pointed at the highest turret, "don't build that so close to the outer wall. In case of an attack, you need to have a place where you can retreat as a last resort, far away from the invaders."

Sansa's lips curled into a cautious smile. When he noticed that, the corner of his mouth twitched and for a moment it appeared that he was smiling too. Not a smile she was used to seeing on the faces of those she had met in the Vale; not courteous, not eager to please nor lecherous, but a subtle one, reaching all the way to his eyes. The grey hardness in them seemed to melt and for a moment he was not a hound but a man.

Then he turned on his heels and went back to his chores.


	2. Hoarfrost

**Hands**

_Sandor_

Her hands were delicate with long fingers and smooth skin – not that he had felt their touch often on him.

Actually, Sandor could count the times. Two times in King's Landing; first when he had rescued her from the mob and she had clung to him, clutching his bare neck so desperately that her nails had made him bleed. The second time, when she had touched his face on the night of the green fire. The third time had been when he had sneaked into the Gates of the Moon. He had crept up behind her and restrained her by covering her mouth with one bare hand and clasping her wrists with the other. She had struggled at first, but hearing his voice she had stilled. Sandor had pressed her back against his chest and felt how frail she was, so small and delicate. Her fingers had twitched and when he had relaxed his grip, she had not pulled them away as he had expected but instead had held on tight, not letting go.

The Warrior Maid of Tarth had sent him there with words of valour and honour. The bag of gold dragons she had given him had clinked its own tale of the many things he could buy with it. Not that Lannister gold had been his true motivation. Seeing the girl again had been its own reward, carefully considered in his calculations before he had accepted the mission.

Sandor liked to watch her at work in the evenings, when there was nothing else to do but domestic chores in their little shelter. She had found a crude oil lamp and some oil, and she sat next to it, toiling. If she wasn't picking impurities from their grain, she was grinding it using an ancient hand-mill made of stone. Mixed with thawed horse's blood it made a nutritious and surprisingly tasty meal. Or she was sewing, trying to adjust their scarce garments, made for fairer weather, to suit colder conditions.

He was riveted by the sight of a coarse needle going through the fabric in her supple fingers; in and out it weaved, transforming the horse's saddle blanket into a sleeveless vest to give him some warmth when he was outdoors. She concentrated hard. The needlework was undoubtedly nothing like her usual embroideries with fine silks and fabrics, Sandor chuckled darkly in his mind. His eyes followed her fingers and how they played with the coarse weave and thread, sure and purposefully, and he remembered the softness of her fingertips.

Every now and then she lifted her eyes and glanced at him. Sometimes she smiled, and when she did, her whole face lit. Sometimes Sandor had to turn away from the sight. Her smiles were not meant for him, he knew.

Nonetheless, as weeks dragged on, she had less and less to do, as they had less and less grain to grind or clothes to fix. They still had meat, but that was it.

Staring at her when he had no excuse for it made Sandor uncomfortable and so he didn't. Yet he missed the evenings when he had just sat and watched her weave her magic.

* * *

**Trees**

_Sandor_

At what point their roles reversed - when he changed from the observer to one being observed - Sandor couldn't tell. What he noticed was that where before the little bird had kept her eyes cast down under his silent scrutiny, lately she had become bolder. He often caught her when she watched him; her eyes on his every movement. She didn't turn away or feign that she had not been looking. No, she lifted her head and stared at him in a way no woman had done before: with no fear or disgust.

The change unnerved him but he pretended it had not happened.

"My Uncle Benjen told me that men of the Night's Watch sometimes lived only on meat on their long journeys beyond the Wall. Yet their health suffered; their gums started to bleed and many lost their teeth." She startled him from his thoughts one evening. "We need food other than meat. Our grain is gone, and we have no vegetables or fruit."

Sandor shifted on his seat. He had heard those stories too, shared around camp fires.

"What do you want me to do about it? Turn into a bloody fruit-tree?" he growled. Was he angry at the girl who reminded him of how poor a job he was doing in taking care of her, or at himself – for the same reason?

The girl blushed. She stoked the fire with a stick and the flames made the shadows on her face swirl and dance.

"We could collect needles from trees and boil them. Uncle Benjen told us that's what the Old Bear made them do."

Sandor hardly listened to her, submerged in thoughts of what kind of a tree _she_ would be. A peach-tree, perhaps; full of soft, pink, fuzzy peaches, velvety to touch… He would be a prickly gnarled pine tree, standing alone, defying cold and wind.

"…I have seen pine trees near the stream, we could go there perhaps tomorrow?"

Sandor shook his head. Bloody hells! Lately his mind had been wandering in strange directions. He didn't like it – it took away the years of discipline and inner peace he had slowly and methodically built. And it was all because of the little bird, always chirping to the tune of her masters. First the notes had been those of her parents, then the ones set by the Lannisters, then by that bastard Littlefinger. If he succeeded in getting her to the North, whose songs would she sing then?

_'I will sing it for you gladly'_, she had once said.

_For me. _

Sandor sneered, but the last thing in his mind that evening just before he drifted into sleep was an image of a peach; round, soft and velvety to touch.

* * *

**Trap**

_Sansa_

The stream near them was brimming with fish, the Hound told her, and she could see frustration clouding his face when they had nothing with which to catch them.

Sansa knew next to nothing about catching fish, but he patiently answered her questions about it and soon she realised she might be able to do something. _He has taken care of everything so far. It is time that I step up._

Once the notion of the Hound looking after her would have been ridiculous and nonsensical. Yet much had changed since King's Landing. He was not the same man he had been then.

Sansa couldn't tell exactly what had changed; outwardly he was still brooding, curt and coarse in his manners. Yet she sometimes caught a glimpse of him when he thought he was alone and saw his features relaxed, his brow smooth, the angry snarl gone and replaced by a calm expression. Had his rage truly been quieted?

Sansa was well aware of what the arrangement between them was. He had rasped into her ear the tale about the Maid of Tarth and about the coin she had paid for him to escort Sansa to Winterfell. How he was there only to fulfil his side of the bargain. If she had hoped for anything more – even for the briefest of moments when she had recognised his voice, the echo of which had permeated her dreams on so many nights – she had soon set aside any such foolishness.

He had told her about Arya. Her little sister! Who had lived against all expectations, escaped and gone across the Narrow Sea. The Hound kept things close to his chest but Sansa gleaned that they had travelled together for a while and he had intended to ransom her back to her family – but then the Red Wedding had happened. Now the Warrior Maid had taken up Arya's trail while sending the Hound to rescue Sansa.

She went to the woods and carefully selected young, pliable shoots of tree saplings, took them into the hut and soaked them in water for many days. Then she wove them into a rudimentary basket with a lid that could be closed at one end. The Hound told her the dimensions and how it should be shaped, but after that it was easy, her childhood lessons in the craft of making baskets for flowers flooding back into her mind.

Sansa was irrationally proud of her creation when it was ready, and the affirming nod and a few muttered words of praise from him made her happier still.

From then on they had fresh fish every few days. No delicacy had ever tasted better in her mouth, as it had been caught partly through her own efforts.

* * *

**Hunger**

_Sandor_

_This is just a mission. I am doing this for the gold I was promised and to clear my name of the bloody Saltpans, _Sandor reminded himself more and more often as days turned to weeks, weeks to months.

First in Casterly Rock and later in King's Landing he had learned to discount his own feelings when it came to his masters and the tasks he did at their bidding. _Ignore them, don't think too much, just do what you have to do. _That had been his private chant and over the years it had become easier and easier to close his eyes against the travesty of knightly values and false behaviour all around him.

He had counted on those years of practice to get him through this ordeal as well. Keeping his head down, concentrating on what needed to be done for their survival and shutting his mind to everything else. Yet the girl refused him that, pulling him into _her_ world.

She did it by first permeating his existence with her presence; ever courteous, ever unobtrusive, yet invading his world one little step at a time. An innocent question here, a cocked head and a look there, an expectation of his input regarding many little things their life consisted of. How did he want his meat prepared? What did he think of the prospects for a storm? When was he going to be back from the woods? Worse than that, the little bird started to ask him about things in the past, long forgotten. Had he ever been on the high seas? What kind of games did he play when he was a child? Had he ever had a pet? Some of the questions he grudgingly answered, some he ignored, but the end result was nonetheless the same. Slowly but surely her persistence chinked away the armour of indifference he had built, layer by layer. Without admitting to it, he saw it starting to crack, piece by little piece.

There had been a dog once; a mangy feral dog, one of the scavengers that followed the trail of an army on a march, many years ago. It had been ferocious and savage, bigger than most, and it had clearly fought as hard as the men it followed. One of its ears had been ripped off, it had borne a huge scar on its flank and bare patches in its tangled fur. It had trusted nobody and had only come near when the camp had been quiet, sniffing for scraps of food near the fire pits.

Sandor had often been the only person to see it as he sat alone, eschewing the company of others. Gradually, over many nights, the beast had started to accept his presence and hadn't shied away from his shadow. He had thrown it pieces from his own portion, first further away, then gradually reducing the distance, and in its hunger the dog had eaten what he had offered, coming closer, step by step.

When he had finally been able to touch it, despite it still growling and eyeing him suspiciously under its brow, Sandor had felt a strange bond with the creature. _One rabid dog meeting another._ Since that day they had kept each other's company in the evenings – still wary but sharing an odd connection.

He felt like that dog at times; not wanting to trust the girl, not wanting to come nearer, but his hunger forcing him to do so nonetheless. It was not only the circumstances that restricted them to such close quarters that saw him giving in – it was his hunger. Hunger for a softly spoken word, for a smile, for the look of appreciation she directed at him when he did something for her.

The army had reached its destination and he had left the camp for better rooms in the keep. He never saw the mangy dog again. Had it ever searched for him among the campfires?

Was that to be his destiny once the winter was over and they reached their destination?

* * *

**Provisions**

_Sandor_

"I am going."

The words fell heavily between them. Sandor knew he didn't need to elaborate further, the little bird would take his meaning. Yet she said nothing and the echo of his raspy voice reverberated through the silence; _'going…going…going…'_

"Is there no other way? I should at least come with you," she eventually blurted out and watched him keenly. Her hair was loose and tousled, and as if she didn't want to break eye contact she blew away some of the wispy coils covering her face. That was not a ladylike thing to do and Sandor watched with fascination the way her lower lip jutted forward. No, not a ladylike thing at all.

"There is no other way. And you are not suited to travel through snow, I will make better time on my own."

He couldn't sleep that night, calculating the odds in his mind. The small village they had passed on their way here; how far was it? They had been hit by a blizzard soon after and gods knew what distance they had covered, wandering in whiteness as they had before stumbling into this hut. One day's walk? Two days?

The trip was a risk but a calculated one. They had no food other than meat, meat and some fish. They had no salt, no flour nor bread, and the few withered root vegetables they had found in the cellar under the floorboards had been consumed long ago. They had no oil to burn in the lamp and the fire didn't offer enough light for the many household chores. They could do with more clothes and blankets too. The winter's back had clearly not broken yet and the weather was getting colder. The girl hardly ventured out anymore in her flimsy coat and dresses, and even in the vest she had made for him Sandor was chilled to the bone by the time he returned inside from the cold.

Sandor garbed himself with all his clothes and wrapped a blanket around his torso, hiding a small bag of coins and thin strips of frozen meat in its folds. If he had to weather a night on the road he would burrow into the snow for protection against the elements.

The girl was nervous, fluttering around and helping him get ready. He could tell that she was terrified about being left alone, but she hid it well. Not a word nor gesture betrayed her – or so she thought. Yet he knew better. He had learned to read her and her moods, his years as an observer in the court helping him in this task.

The way she cocked her head when something caught her interest. The way she frowned when she didn't quite understand something – or when she didn't agree with something he said. There was a subtle difference between the two and he had learned to separate them. The way she smiled shyly and happily when something good happened. The way she retreated into herself and stared into the whiteness through the window and he knew that she was thinking of the past; her family, her dreams, her choices and everything that had happened. Aye, he had studied her and knew her better than he had known any living thing ever before. Yet he didn't call her by her name.

At times when she stared into the nightmares of her past Sandor had wanted to console her; tell her that everything was going to be fine. Yet he couldn't, as he was not a liar. There were battles ahead for her still, even if they reached the North as planned. Battles where outcomes were uncertain. He didn't have much left in this world, but he had his honesty and dignity and he couldn't sacrifice them even for comforting the little bird.

As Sandor walked away he fought against turning to look back. Only when he was so far gone that he estimated that she would surely have gone back inside did he spin around.

She was still there, standing by the door of the hut, so small, so frail, her gaze aimed in his direction. Seeing him turn she raised her hand and waved. He waved back, feeling foolish for doing so, but returned her gesture nonetheless.

* * *

**Longing**

_Sansa_

Only when the Hound was gone did Sansa realise how important his quiet presence had become. Her wariness long gone, she had not only gotten used to his company, but had started to crave it. When he entered the hut at the end of a day, bending his tall form to fit through the door, brushing snow off his shoulders, muttering about the cold and bringing with him a whiff of pine, forest and snow, Sansa was filled with a sense of satisfaction she hadn't felt for a long, long time – longer than she cared to remember.

At first she had revelled in their humble existence, believing its cause to be merely her relief at finally being able to shed Alayne's skin and become Sansa again. Now she realised it had been more than that. Sharing her life with one who was honest and truthful and who only sought what was best for her, not for himself, felt as refreshing as a summer rain after a drought. That she had learned to see him as a _man_, not only as a weapon of war or a menacing presence, only increased the fluttering in her belly when she felt his eyes on her.

She missed him. As simple as that.

"I thought of you often," she had said one evening, out of the blue. Why, she couldn't tell, but seeing the way he first stiffened and then slumped his shoulders, she had regretted the impulse that made her do it.

"Had nightmares, did you?" the Hound had growled, avoiding her gaze.

"No, not at all! I…wondered what had happened to you. Whether you had survived, whether you had found peace." How could she tell him that he had been in her mind more times than she could count, always a comforting figure, someone who had tried to help and protect her? If she told him that, would he believe her? Or would he laugh his raspy laugh and think her a stupid girl?

Some madness had made her blurt out a question that was as foolish as it was improper. "Did you ever think of me?"

The silence had continued for what seemed like forever and Sansa had thought he would ignore her altogether. _Better that than to be laughed at._

"Might have. Could have." He had shifted on his pallet and turned his back on her, indicating that the discussion was over.

That night Sansa had thought of all the quips she could have made, what she _should _have said. _Nightmares, my lord? With pity, I am certain? The one that got away, was it?_ Yet to know that she had been in his thoughts in any manner pleased her.

Every day since his departure Sansa went on with what little tasks she could, mostly confined as she was inside the hut. Her ears were continuously scanning the noises from outside for signs that he was returning. She admonished herself for her stupidity; it would take at least two whole days, maybe three, before she should even start expecting him. Yet every crack of ice, every whistle of wind through the trees and every distant howl of a forest creature brought her heart into her throat in a mixture of giddy anticipation and hope.

Her longing for him was more than a matter of survival. Yes, she would face a dire situation if he didn't come back, but she would survive. She still had plenty of meat, and she had started to make the bitter green brew from pine needles to improve the monotony of their nourishment. Sansa had started to trust her own strength and skills during her time as a bastard daughter and even more during their life in their forest cottage.

Yes, she would live – and if necessary, she could make a one-way journey to the village to seek human company. She had most of the Lannister gold still, left behind by the Hound.

It was the thought of never seeing his scarred face again or hearing his gravelly voice that filled her heart with fear and sorrow bigger than she could have imagined. Slowly he had infiltrated her world, her heart and her mind and for him to leave her again would leave such a gaping hole that she could not conceive how she could ever fill that again.

_The Hound._ She tasted the name on her lips and decided that it was not fitting anymore. _Sandor. His name is Sandor._

Six days had passed since Sandor had left and still there was no sign of him. Sansa walked around the hut in endless circles, and slowly descended to a pitch black pit of anxiety and despair.


	3. Powder

Homecoming _Sandor_

When Sandor reached the hut and dropped the rope of the sleigh on the ground, he had hardly time to straighten himself when the door burst open and the girl rushed out.

"Sandor!" She jumped at him and as surprised as he was, he extended his arms and caught her.

"Sandor, you came back!" He could hardly hear the words she mumbled against his shoulder, her face buried in his new furs.

_Sandor?_ She had never called him thus and hearing it woke something in him. Not many people had, and even fewer of them had been women.

"Of course I came back…Sansa," he rumbled, savouring the sound of her name as it came out of his mouth. He felt equally strange saying it, almost guilty, as if it was something forbidden. "The village was further than I thought, and the return trip slower going because of this." He gestured at the sleigh piled high with supplies.

Carefully he lowered her to the ground but she didn't let go, clutching at him. It took more soothing words, the same ones he had always used with his horses, to make her release her grip.

The evening went by quickly as they unloaded his cargo and the girl – _Sansa_ – marvelled at everything he had brought. All that he had set out to get and more. Sandor was weary though, exhausted from long days, short nights and the heavy pulling. He crashed onto his pallet soon after the meal and fell into a bottomless pit of deep sleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night as something soft brushed his side, his soldier's instincts warning him of possible danger. He turned his head and saw that the girl had sneaked into his bed and rested against him, her left hand across his chest and her head in the crook of his arm. How she had been able to wiggle herself there he didn't know.

Sandor knew he should push her away, tell her to go to her own bed, but he was too tired, too exhausted to rouse her. Besides, she was warm and soft and he still felt a ghost of the bone-crushing chill that had accompanied him for most of his journey – so he let her be and closed his eyes.

* * *

Long night _Sandor_

Sansa was gone by the time Sandor woke up and for a moment he thought it had happened only in his dreams. Yet her smell still lingered in his nostrils. Besides, his dreams of her were usually much more explicit than her innocently resting in his arms, chastely clothed.

He had tried to deny those dreams, had cursed them and pushed them into the back of his mind, but always they returned. Sandor refused to think of them when awake; heated visions of writhing naked bodies, dishevelled red hair and sounds of rutting as she gave him her maiden's song…

_Sansa._ To think of her by her given name somehow seemed to disintegrate the wall of propriety between them, the barricade separating those who serve and those who were served. It was too intimate and disconcerting – just as her presence under his covers had been. _Sansa._

Sandor heard her humming to herself that day, saw her glancing at him every now and then and smiling; an open, broad smile, pure happiness expressed on her face. Sandor chose to think that it was because of all the food, furs, clothes and other supplies he had brought that made her so, but a small part of him wanted to hang on to the illusion that it was because of _him._

That night she came to him again, sneaking across the floor after they had both settled on their pallets, quietly stealing under his blanket. Sandor sensed her coming and turned abruptly to face her, grasping her wrist and squeezing it hard.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing, girl?" _Why is she doing this? Unless…_ "Did you think I was tempted to leave you, and now seek to buy my loyalty and service with your favours, is that it?" He spoke more harshly than he had intended and in the orange glow emitted by the dying embers in the fireplace he saw her mouth open and heard her loud intake of breath.

"Leave me? No, I didn't think you would. You are a man of honour although you may wish to deny it," she whispered. "To buy you? I have nothing with which to do that. I only…" She didn't finish her sentence, but nor did she try to squirm loose of his firm hold.

Sandor felt her closeness acutely, and it was different from the previous night. Then he had been worn out and too exhausted to properly register her long limbs next to his, the curve of her breast and hip as they pressed against his flank, or the softness of her hair as it flowed free of restraint and covered the coarse mattress with its silken veil. Now he was rested and noticed all those things _too bloody clearly._

"Aye, I _did_ come back. You don't have to try to ensnare me to look after you. Haven't I promised you more than once that I will keep you safe and that I will take you to the North - _haven't I!?"_ His grip tightened but she didn't flinch or try to pull her hand away – on the contrary, she pressed herself closer.

"You have promised me that and I believe you. Still, why couldn't I stay? Why don't you want me near?" Her warm breath caressed his cheek, so close she was.

Sandor closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. _Why? Seven hells!_ Her manner was not seductive and her actions lacked the purposefulness of a woman who was keen on bedsport. She must have been experienced with those though, having married the Imp and lived with Littlefinger. Yet there was something innocent in the way she clung to him, almost as if she truly didn't know what it did to a red-blooded man. _Why not?_

Sighing he acquiesced and turned on his back. This too, he had to endure. Gods, the girl was going to be the death of him, he cursed.

Sansa fell asleep easily judging by the sound of her steady breathing, but Sandor stayed up late. Having accepted his new burden he was determined to enjoy the sensation of her next to him, and to memorise the experience, burning it into the deep recesses of his mind in case it never happened again. Her fingers splayed across his chest, her left thigh resting partly on top of his and her tresses tickling his nose. Sandor suffered the agonies of seven hells but stayed perfectly still so as not to wake her.

It was a longest night of his life.

* * *

Persistence _Sansa_

She marvelled at how easy it had been to make him accept her presence in his bed. Without either of them formulating it into words, from that time forward she slipped into his bed in the quiet of the evening - and he lifted his cover and let her.

Part of her knew that she was playing with fire. Men could be animals in such matters and she was still a maid, despite knowing what went on between men and women. The ears of a bastard daughter were not as sacred as those of a noble maid and she had heard her share of ribald tales and innuendos. Yet she couldn't believe that Sandor could do anything to harm her. _He has promised to take care of me._

Sandor was not the only one to sometimes stay awake. Sansa, too, stared into the darkness many a night, comforted and thrilled by his hard body next to her. It unnerved and excited her, made her breath quicken and flooded her mind with vague thoughts and longing. _What do I truly want of him? Is it as he says, am I only seeing him as my way out and without realising it, trying to bend him to my will?_

Sansa had heard Cersei talking about 'woman's weapons' and later she had learned that it was not only idle talk. Surely she was not doing it? It was not that she actually _laid_ with him… She never got further than that in her thoughts, two sides of her warring with each other; one simply desiring to be near him and take and give comfort, the other condemning her behaviour as wanton and worse than that; deceitful. If she was not willing to lay with him, why did she share his bed? Was she giving promises she had no intention of keeping? Was she a _liar? _Those Sandor hated more than anything, she knew. And yet here she was, not intentionally lying to him but possibly leading him on just the same. _Oh, why this is so difficult?_

The days were different as well. She was so happy that he was back that she felt like laughing or humming or just gazing at him all the time. Sandor, in turn, oscillated between being affable, even _funny_ sometimes, to being morose and moody, sometimes even argumentative. Sansa found herself tiptoeing around him, trying to judge his moods and how receptive he would be to her approaches.

Yet when the night came and she laid on her bed, wondering whether she should stay or go, every time her desire to be near him – no talking, no moodiness, no arguments – won and she found herself making her way across the room.

And every time he lifted his covers, inviting her to join him.

Every time she sank down next to him, enveloped him with her limbs and pressed her head against his shoulder.

And every time she found solace in his arms and cared not to delve any deeper into the whys and why nots.

* * *

Apple _Sandor_

Their life was settled now. The goods he had bought from the village would see them through for a long time; grain, root vegetables, bitter jams made of forest berries, salt and even some more exotic spices. Furs, blankets, clothes. Oil for lamps. Thread and fine cloth – apparently the last piece in the whole fucking village - for the little bird for her sewing. Some skins of sour red, to be saved for special occasions such as Sevenmas. Not that he cared, but the girl had been chirping about it.

And a special treat: an apple.

It was wrinkled and withered but it was real and still red. The day after his return Sansa cut it with great ceremony into several pieces and plated them on the only decent dish they had. She placed the platter between them on the table and gestured him to take his due.

"You have it, I have no need for treats." Sandor pushed the plate towards her, wanting her to have this special taste of summer in the middle of winter.

"No, I can't. You brought it all the way here through the snow. _You_ take the first piece." She pushed the plate back towards him.

Sandor didn't have to stop to think; it was _she_ whom he had had in his mind when he had spotted the fruit, the last in the innkeeper's stores. He pushed it towards her again.

He saw her sigh, then pick one of the quarters delicately with her fingers. She put the piece between her lips and without intending to, Sandor followed how it disappeared into her plump, pink mouth. He took a bite and chewed the little piece slowly, meticulously. The she extended her hand and held the rest of it in front of his mouth, her eyebrows arching questioningly.

"Your turn."

Sandor stared at the bite-marks clearly visible in the flesh of the apple, matching her small, straight teeth. He leaned forward and took the piece between his teeth, his lips closing around it. The girl didn't let go at first and for a brief moment his lips touched her forefinger and thumb.

Without breaking eye contact, they ate the whole apple that way; she taking a small bite, then handing the piece to him and he eating the rest of it from her hand.

That apple was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

* * *

Touch _Sandor_

The first time he touched her they had both lain awake for a long time after the last of the fire had died down. He knew she was still alert, just as well he knew that she was equally aware about his state of wakefulness.

Sandor had still not been able to gather what her game was. If she trusted that he wouldn't leave her, why come into his bed?

Why come to him for any other reason than persuasion? Did she want to fuck or not? Had the Imp – and this was where he always felt bile rising in his throat – trained her well, awakened her desires? Or worse, had Littlefinger trained her in the ways of whores?

If so, why didn't she make her move? Gods be his witnesses, he was willing – his cock was aching from his desire, no matter how much he tried to shut it and her out of his mind.

Sandor had tried to imagine her as she had been when he had first laid his eyes on her; a young girl, hardly more than a child. The surge of protectiveness he had felt towards her in King's Landing had been an odd mix of trying to shield a child from cruelty, and the possessiveness a man might feel about a woman who had caught his attention.

_She is just a child. She lost all her family, she is only looking for a father-figure._ That thought alone had been unexpectedly reassuring. As far as he could remember, nobody had ever looked at him as someone to seek comfort from. For a reason, Sandor had to admit, knowing that had anyone else tried he wouldn't have cared. Not about anyone else but _her_.

Still she came, night after night, settling next to him, always dressed in a loose dress as had been her habit all along. The trust she placed in him… some nights Sandor ground his teeth in frustration.

Yet he was not blind to her reactions. He noticed how the pace of her breathing changed at times, felt the slight trembling of her limbs. No, she could not be completely naïve.

That very night had been especially excruciating. The day had been a good one. He had captured fresh fish from the stream and tried to help her gut it, she had gotten mock-annoyed by his good intentions and had shoved him aside in jest; he had not given in and in the end she had dipped her fingers into a bucket of ice-cold water and splattered him with that. They had laughed out loud, hers chiming clear as bells, his low and rumbling, but genuine laughter just the same.

Sandor had felt more at ease with the little bird than he ever had with anyone - and here she was now, breathing in tune with him. Could he just close his eyes and fall asleep?

Slowly, very slowly he turned onto his side, facing her. He could hardly see her face in the dim light but from the tension in her body he was well aware that she was paying attention to his movements. He lifted his hand and placed it on top of her shoulder.

There was no mistaking it, she trembled – in fear? Sandor let his palm rest there for a while, but as she made no move to brush it aside or withdraw from him, he let it slide down her arm. Where it bent at the elbow, instead of following the arm he dropped his hand onto her hip, and after only a short break, during which he stilled to see if her reactions changed, he continued further down still.

By the time he reached the soft inside of her thighs and still she didn't resist, Sandor knew that he couldn't stop.

* * *

Morning _Sansa_

Sansa stretched on the pallet, curling her toes and covering her eyes with her forearms. The events of the previous night flooded her mind and she felt embarrassed – and thrilled.

When Sandor had first laid his hand upon her she had suddenly realised that _this_ was what she had been waiting, even hoping for. The comfort and security she felt in his arms were one thing, and although they had satisfied her, she had known that there was more, there _had_ to be more – and she wanted it.

"Let me have you, little bird," he had panted against her chest, the coarseness of his beard rubbing her sensitive skin, his hands roaming all over her body touching places no man ever had – places even she felt shy about. Despite the hardly-concealed force in his voice and the intensity of his caresses, there had been a hint of pleading in his demeanour. Sansa had understood that if she denied him, he would let her be. Yet refusing him hadn't even crossed her mind. Yes, a fleeting thought about her maidenhood had come to her but what of it? Finally the choice was hers, and finally here was a man whom she _wanted_… and for whom she was ready to let go of her mother's teachings and the deep-rooted values of her upbringing. _Just be gentle with me._

"I may not be as fine and fancy as the others, but by gods, I will not hurt you." The words had rolled from his mouth in between her breasts, where he had buried his face. _But there have been no others. Please._

Things had ground to a halt then, Sandor lifting his head and staring at her incredulously. His eyes had gleamed in darkness and surprise had been etched on his face. "Gods, are you telling me you are still a maid?"

Sansa sighed. She didn't understand why it mattered to him, if it was of no importance to her. It was _hers_ to bestow, after all. Yet he had declined her gift.

She lifted her arm and peeked at Sandor, sleeping soundly next to her. His features were relaxed and he snored slightly. It was little things like that which made him dear to her; signs that he was just a man and not a hound. The small grunting noises from his throat when he placed his full weight on his injured leg in a bad position. How he still combed his black hair over his scars – as if that mattered to her! An old jape about birds and winter he had told her ten times but still repeated – and she laughed at it every time, having no heart to tell him that it had gone stale.

One of his hands was resting on his chest, the other raised above his head. Sansa looked at his fingers; thick, calloused, covered with dark hair up to the first digits – yet surprisingly long and elegant compared to the overall size of his hand. She blushed remembering where those fingers had touched her and how it had felt. She wondered how _he_ had sensed it, caressing her in all her womanly places. She blushed further when she recalled what a surprise she herself had experienced when she had curled her fingers against the soft, smooth skin of his manhood, so contradictory to its hardness.

He had declined her gift, freely offered to him, but he had pleased her with his kisses and his hands. _Please, let me touch you, _she had pleaded and finally he had guided her hand down to his member and showed her what he liked. Sansa had been thrilled not only because of the sensations coursing through her body, but also from seeing him so completely undone – by her!

She traced her forefinger from Sandor's brow to his hooked nose, hardly coming into contact with the skin but hovering just above it – yet he seemed to sense it as he shifted, opened his eyes and slowly, turned his head to look at her. Suddenly Sansa felt shy. What would he say? What would he do…after all they had done?

He smiled, the crooked smile as always, but his grey eyes were warm.


	4. Slush

**Author's Notes: ***Sigh* - time to finish yet another story... It was a pleasure to write and I would have desired to write more, but alas, Christmas waits for no-one and Santa couldn't be late! It was even more pleasure to share this with all of you, and be gifted back in return with your wonderful comments. Thank you so very much, each and everyone of you!

**Summary:**Sansa pushed the door closed behind her, the old gnarled wood shutting to hold the new secrets it had accumulated; the secret of the noble maiden and the scarred warrior.

* * *

Surrender _Sandor_

_She is a maid still._

The thought had never even occurred to him – not after the Imp and Littlefinger. He had assumed she was experienced and knew what she was doing, and he had hoped…Aye, he had dared to hope, especially after she had started to sneak into his bed. But this changed _everything_. And he didn't want to hurt her. Gods, if he did have her, there would be pain.

Yet Sandor's resolution had been hard tested the previous night when she had beseeched him, no, _begged_ him to take her. Never in his life had he fought as hard against a foe, the enemy being his own instincts and desires. But as always, he had won – a victory that tasted like ashes in his mouth when he saw her that morning; her broad smile, blushing cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. And remembered the taste of her kisses, hesitant and awkward at first, and later, as they both gained more confidence, exploring and daring. That she had allowed him to touch her intimately had almost been his undoing, but he had controlled himself - mostly.

Later that day Sandor fled outdoors. He went to check the fish trap and found a plump, silvery fish which he killed, gutted and scaled on a flat rock jutting out of the stream. The cold water made his skin tingle but that was good – it took his mind away from the only thing that had occupied it the whole day.

_I can't allow her into my bed anymore._ Yes, he had kissed and sucked her and felt her round breasts and her slickness and nothing could take that memory away from him. He had felt her soft fingers curling around his cock, hesitantly at first but as he had showed her the rhythm, more forcefully until he had released in a whirling mixture of desperation, bliss and guilt. Yet it had been playing with fire, with all-consuming flames that would burn brightly but bring only embers of desolation in their wake.

The atmosphere in the hut was subdued and the air thick with things unsaid. Sansa fried the fish and they ate in silence. At the end of the meal, Sandor escaped to the chair opposite the fireplace and avoided looking at her.

Why he resisted her so hard he didn't know for sure. Any other man in his position would have ravished her long time ago, willing or not.

Despite his time at the Quiet Isle, which had reduced his rage, Sandor had no illusions about himself. He was still a hard man, uncouth and crude. If he touched her again, he would besmirch her and bring her down to his level and that was something he couldn't do.

Once on a trip through the Westerlands he had found a young squirrel in the forest floor when he had gone for a piss. It must have fallen from the nest, and what he should have done was ignore it and let nature take its course. Or if its furry innocence touched him, he should have crushed it under the heel of his boot to end its misery before thirst, hunger or a predator did it. But no, he had picked it up, felt the softness of its velvety fur against his palms, and tucked it inside his jerkin.

He had ridden on, and when in the evening he had reached for the baby animal he had found it dead – crushed between his boiled leather jerkin and the hardened strap of his sword belt. He had stared at the drop of blood in its tiny nostril and cursed. Never should he be trusted with anything as delicate as that – or the girl. If he didn't literally crush her to her death, he would end up breaking her spirit with his foul moods and the darkness that still sometimes threatened to swallow him. No, he couldn't destroy her by allowing her close.

"Sandor." He startled. Sansa knelt on the floor and placed her hands on his knees, resting her head on top of them. Her gaze pierced through him and he felt like a fish speared through the gut, powerless and helplessly flapping.

"Please, let go of whatever is holding you back and let me have you. I am not only giving myself to you, I am also asking _you_ to give yourself to _me_."

Sandor swallowed. He tried to reason with her; her noble birth, her marriage that could be annulled so she could marry anew to form a powerful alliance, how he didn't want to hurt her. Yet he was talking to deaf ears as she only smiled and drew circles with her forefinger on his knee, climbing higher and higher along his thigh until her hand was dangerously close to his groin. He reacted – and she noticed, her smile widening.

Finally she climbed up and extended her hand to brush his cheek. She leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on the good side and whispered into his ear, "Tonight. Sevenmas is almost here and we shall exchange gifts. Please, don't refuse mine as I will not refuse yours."

Later that evening Sandor heard soft steps and the rustle of clothes as she approached. He sighed. _If this is a battle, I have already lost._

* * *

Change _Sandor_

Sandor had been right. _Everything changed._

It was as if they had been picking at loose bricks on the wall of a mighty dam, one by one, first releasing a thin stream of water to flow through the cracks which gradually widened. His acceptance of being drawn into her sphere had been the first notable crack. She jumping into his arms had been the second. She in his bed the third. And there had been numerous smaller fractures; every jape they shared, every story told from the past, every touch of her fingers on him, no matter how innocent or passing. And this, him taking her maiden's gift, was the final blow.

And so, as when a powerful dam breaks and releases giant masses of water and sweeps away everything and everyone in its path, their life changed, and they bobbed helplessly in that stream, sucked under and whirled around.

Of course he hurt her. There had been no way to avoid it even though Sandor had tried his best to control himself and give her time to relax and accept the strange new intrusion into her body. _He _had ached from the strain but what had pained him most had been her involuntary gasps for breath, strained smile and tense muscles – and still she had exhorted him to continue.

The only thing giving him some consolation had been that if any other man had been in his place, he might not have cared as much. If this was his burden to bear, to hurt her and make her a woman, by gods he was going to be as careful and gentle as he could.

And she had sang to him in the end, the most beautiful song he had ever heard.

Sandor could have sworn that from thereon the days were brighter, the weather warmer, the food tastier. Sansa only laughed at him when he commented on it, a throaty, sensuous laugh that suggested that she well knew what had made the difference and wanted more.

Indeed, with almost no fixed schedule and no other people to care about, their days descended into an endless celebration of their newfound passion. There were days when they didn't leave the bed for anything but the most urgent necessities. They moved their pallets next to another and Sandor placed a flat wooden board to join them. That gave them more room to explore each other's bodies in all kinds of imaginative ways Sandor had never known existed, or hadn't cared about. That everything was so new to Sansa made everything new to him too.

One thing he was adamant about was that he never spent himself inside her. Aye, her lost maidenhood could be explained by her marriage, but not her return with a swollen belly when her husband had not been seen for such a long time.

Yes, everything changed.

* * *

Life _Sansa_

Sansa had never been as happy as she was now. The rational part of her mind told her that things could not stay that way; they couldn't continue like this when the spring finally came and they continued their journey. Yet her heart whispered that maybe winter would never end, or maybe even if it ended and they reached Winterfell, nothing had to change.

_I am a woman now._ She couldn't help the giggles that sometimes escaped her in unguarded moments. What would her mother say, or Myranda? What about Margaery, who had thought her taste leaned towards the Knight of Flowers? And she had found her happiness and more pleasure than she had ever imagined to be possible with _the Hound?_

Except he was not the Hound anymore; that moniker had already been dropped for good a long time ago. Yet there were times when she was secretly thrilled by his size and strength and the knowledge that he could take down any man in Westeros. Sometimes Sansa felt guilty about it. What she truly wanted was what she had prayed for on the night of the Battle of Blackwater; for him to quell his rage and find peace. Nevertheless…the sight of his rippling muscles and scarred torso woke something shameless in her, the primitive satisfaction of a woman who wanted her man strong.

After the initial heat of passion eventually subsided, they found a new and if possible, even more satisfying element in their relationship. They actually got to _know_ each other; learn what had made them as they were. Both had much to share, Sandor's admissions being harder to come by and slower to emerge. Yet he did give in, gradually, and that Sansa considered to be a much more valuable gift to her than her maidenhead had ever been to him.

Sevenmas came and went, and they celebrated it by opening one of the wineskins and serving it with a stew of horsemeat and exotic spices. Sansa's gift to Sandor was a handkerchief embroidered with a dog of his house sigil. His gift to her was a fox pelt, white as snow, thick and soft. It was yet dry and hard, but Sandor promised he would have it tanned soft and pliable once they reached the North.

Their life consisted of the same tasks as before, but with the addition of an unexpected new element: joy. Also new were quiet nights when the fire crackled in the fireplace and they rested in each other's arms naked, sated from lovemaking. What was also new were lingering kisses the very first thing in the morning, stolen kisses in the middle of the day, and passionate embraces in the darkness of the night.

They truly lived like a husband and a wife.

Sansa accepted the wisdom of their interrupted couplings although she was disappointed that she couldn't get _his_ song fully. Finally she understood the meaning of his words on the serpentine stairs that day long ago, and teasingly admonished him for playing such a trick on a young and innocent girl. Sandor only smirked that if she had been so innocent to mistake his meaning completely, what was the harm? Defeated, Sansa couldn't argue against that.

When she started to get queasy from the smell of frying meat, she thought it was only because both of them were getting tired of their monotonous diet. They doubled their efforts in catching fish and the second trap she had prepared was taken into service.

When she threw up after eating a meal of fish and potatoes, she started to worry for real. After confessing her concerns to Sandor it didn't take long for them to perform simple calculations of her bodily functions before coming to a disturbing conclusion.

She was with a child.

* * *

Spring _Sandor_

The first signs were the icicles forming outside their window. Sandor watched as they grew and despite his contempt for most pretty baubles, he regarded them as a thing of beauty; so elegant, so clear, like finest glass.

The second sign was the days getting longer. Whereas previously by the time they had enjoyed their main meal and Sandor had gone to throw the dirty washing water outside, it had been dark or at least dusk. Yet lately he had found himself stepping out into clear daylight.

Finally, when the snow started to retreat, they couldn't ignore the inevitable conclusion anymore. The spring was coming.

It had been an unusually short winter – and not a real one, in truth. The cold spell had only been exacerbated by the high altitudes in the Mountains of the Moon.

They didn't discuss what it meant, at first. Sandor was loath to bring it up, knowing that the moment they left their little sanctuary, their roles would reverse back to a noble maid and her paid help. Yet he thought about it every day, as he eyed how the snow receded little by little, soon making the mountain paths navigable again.

"Sandor. We can't leave before I have delivered the babe," Sansa said one evening as she undressed, bending clumsily to remove her woollen stockings now that her belly was getting in the way.

"That is exactly why we have to leave as soon as possible," Sandor gritted through his teeth. He knew nothing about birthing and the notion of Sansa having to face alone the battlefield in which many women lost their lives worried him even more than the thought of leaving the hut. They needed to get to some village, find a wise-woman and stay there until her time came. After that…

"We don't know what awaits us on the road. At least here we have shelter and food, clean water and a warm hearth. I am young and strong. My mother birthed five healthy babes and she had no trouble with any them. Not even with Robb, her first." Sansa curled up next to him and he made room to accommodate her belly.

Sandor had felt the babe's movements many evenings; slight ripples through Sansa's stretched skin, alternating between a mighty kick every now and then. Without intending to, he had already formed a bond with the babe, which made the inevitable even worse. They hadn't discussed in detail what would happen, but Sandor knew that the only solution was to foster the newborn with a modest family with as little fuss as possible. Nobody needed to know how low the mighty House Stark had fallen.

In the end Sansa's will prevailed. She was too far gone anyway and the dangers of giving birth in the wilderness were too real. Sighing, Sandor acquiesced and settled down to wait for the birthing with a cold ring around his chest.

* * *

Boy _Sandor_

The babe was screaming his lungs off but that didn't bother Sandor in the least. He simply couldn't tear his eyes away from the wriggling creature in Sansa's arms. Big and healthy, a few wisps of dark hair on his forehead. When Sandor extended his hand towards him, the babe stopped and grabbed his finger, squeezing it tight in his little fist.

That grip sealed Sandor's fate for the rest of his life. _I will never let go. Never. I will not desert my son._

Sansa had never seemed as beautiful in his eyes as now when she laid back, exhausted, strands of auburn tresses plastered on her forehead after a night of labour. Yet she smiled; both when marvelling at the babe in her arms, and when looking up to meet his gaze.

"What do you want to call him?" She cocked her head and waited for his answer.

"I haven't thought about it. You decide," he grumbled. "No Eddard or Robb though. Would be too suspicious for a bastard son."

Sansa frowned. "What do you mean, 'bastard son'?"

"Well, even if the family who takes him will announce him as theirs, how often do peasant families name their sons after their lords? Better give him an honest but humble name."

Sansa grew clearly agitated at that. "What do you mean, 'family who takes him'? Nobody will take my son!" Her arms curled protectively around the boy as if somebody was already trying to reach for him.

Sandor winced. Still the little bird, head up in the clouds.

"You know it can't be known that you birthed him – especially that I sired him. Your people would never tolerate that. This has been a dream, but a dream is all there is, and it is time we both wake up." It physically pained him to say those words, but say them he did.

Instead of Sansa starting to cry or argue with him, as he expected, she turned serious. She changed her position, moving the boy into her other arm and leaned over to grasp Sandor's hand. She spoke in a low voice, slowly and with the gravitas of someone who had thought long and hard about what she was going to say.

"Sandor, listen to me and listen well. Once we leave this hut, all three of us, we travel to the North. And we will go to the first Godswood we encounter on our way and we will bless our union the Northern way. The ceremony performed in front of the Seven is less acknowledged in the North than that in front of the old gods, and there my only true marriage will be with you."

Sandor stared at her and she squeezed his arm and continued.

"I am not stupid. I know it is not going to be easy. I don't expect _anything_ to be easy – it certainly hasn't been so far. Yet I can do this - if you stay by my side. Can you promise to do that? Do you swear?"

Sandor was sucked into her big blue orbs and the determination behind them. _Not a little bird anymore, but a wolf._ His common sense told him that Sansa was foolish, her words only a desperate attempt to hold on to their fantasy before it dissolved in the harsh light of reality. He had already decided that he would settle in the North, near the family fostering his son, and help them in any way he could. Now his heart was pulled towards dizzying new possibilities; to have him _and her. _ Sandor knew it was controversial and dangerous and they shouldn't even contemplate it, but his trust in the strength of this extraordinary young girl spoke otherwise.

He swallowed hard and said the only vows of his whole life – and he meant them.

"Aye, I will stay. I will take you as my lady wife, and we will raise the boy together. I swear this by the old gods and new - you have my word."

* * *

Sling _Sansa_

Sansa had never realised what it was to love her own child, just as she had never realised how it could be to love a good man. She had learned both in relatively short succession, and it left her in awe.

She meant what she had said – she was not stupid. Arriving at Winterfell with a husband of suspicious background and a babe in tow would be an inconvenience to those who might support her return as a symbol of House Stark, a pawn to be married off to the most suitable candidate. Her consolation was that although the Northern lords could be stubborn and insistent, they also respected a man for his character and strength more than for his title or the age of his house. They would accept Sandor – eventually. They only had to stay strong until they did.

Sandor retired to his place by the fire for the evening and didn't come when she called for him, muttering something about having to finish something. Sansa fell asleep, the babe in a little box next to their bed.

She woke up several times during the night, nursing and soothing the babe, but only when she got up the next morning did she notice something at the foot of the bed. She lifted it carefully and saw that it was some kind of loose sack of grain, open on its wide side, tied together on the ends to form a large circle.

While she was still trying to figure out what it was, she heard a rasping voice behind her.

"A sling. For the boy. You can carry him in that rather than in your arms."

Sansa twirled the concoction again and started to make some sense of it. She pushed her head and one arm through it and it rested loosely on her hip – just enough room in its folds for the babe.

She felt a lump in her throat. That Sandor had made that spoke volumes to her about his commitment; more than anything he could have said.

She climbed onto the bed, placed her hands on both sides of his face and stared at him. The man, the killer, the lover – and now the father. She pressed her mouth against his lips and savoured his familiar taste.

They waited for a few more weeks until Sansa got her strength back and the boy had survived the first few dangerous weeks after birth. The mountain paths were still covered with snow, but passable, and the temperature had increased to levels that allowed them to travel for most of the day and stay warm in their furs during the night.

While Sansa took a last sweeping look around the hut, Sandor readied the sleigh. He had built crude wheels that could be exchanged for its runners when they left snowy terrains. Sansa stepped out of the hut carrying the babe, who was still mostly oblivious to the goings-on around him. Still, the bright light in the yard alerted him and he opened his eyes, blue as sky, and yawned.

Sansa pushed the door closed behind her, the old gnarled wood shutting to hold the new secrets it had accumulated; the secret of the noble maiden and the scarred warrior.

**THE END**


End file.
